


The Dust That Makes Us.

by fearless_seas



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, French History RPF, French Revolution RPF
Genre: Goodbyes, Last Kiss, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: That is the thing. The sky demands to be seen. Just as love pushes to be felt. It is the exact thing with him. The dust that created him was gold waiting to be counted. The depths of his eyes yearned to be understood. The coves of his soul craved to be held. And you'd do it just for me. I'd do it for you.Maximilien.





	The Dust That Makes Us.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunshineapollo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineapollo/gifts).



> This was requested by my dear beloved Antoine: @sunshineapollo on Tumblr <3

**July** **28th, 1794 | Paris, France**

**_______________________**

 

          If it were any other day, or anybody else, Antoine Saint-Just perhaps would of peered out of the window as the tundrel sheltered past and thought, _what a beautiful to die_. These hours today are not one of those days. Instead, he thought, _this is how it all ends_. The sun is hanging low in the summer sky but it is as bright as any normal commencement. The rails of the cart slip out from behind his spine from last night’s rain. There is a sandstone glow on the horizon and the sun meets his face. He shuts his eyes and drifts restlessly into its warm embrace. His body sways as though there were music in the air and he nearly topples over the side. The rope is digging into his wrists, but he doesn’t wince at the sharp irritation; the ache he felt in his chest was far worse

          He looked to his right, the shadow of his silhouette falling over Augustin Robespierre. Now, _they_ were wincing: huffing out shaky breaths of air as if he’d just sprinted up a flight of stairs. Their lips quiver and only then does one notice his cedar eyes are pinched tightly shut, the column of their throat bobs as white knuckles grasp the dirtied thighs of their breeches and misshapen legs. His neck falls back, bare and vulnerable to the sky above. Augustin opens his eyes at their presence, peers up at him and every rock of the carriage causes another sharp tear to trail off of his nose. Antoine rips his gaze away quickly and stares out beyond the open carriage. It was easier to tell himself that they were crying over the pain of broken legs than what was to eventually come.

          The warm breeze on his bare chest makes him yearn to tug his ripped shirt higher on his shoulders to shield himself. Eventually, he manages enough courage and turns his head slowly to his right. He’d been putting it off for a while, stoic and still as he was, Antoine didn’t want to see what might eventually break him. Even as he tried to prepare himself, he still feels, as he glances down at the shorter man at his side, as if he had been stabbed. If he could, his hand would’ve clutched his breast and made sure there was still blood rushing through his veins. 

          Maximilien Robespierre appears as broken as a china doll. His skin is ashen and cracked, his forehead glistened with sweat and dust. The collar of his shirt is soaked through and you may believe it was the threading. The scarlet flaps in the wind and the bandage around his mouth is dirty and gritty. They are hunched like a beggar on the street corner. The curve of their vertebrae poke through the thin, cream of their shirt. Forgetting the ropes, Antoine attempts to place a hand on their back, to quiet their shivering and hold them still against his chest. His own eyelids tweaked combatively as he feels the skin on his worn wrists tear and blister. 

_I pray you are not frightened, Antoine._

_Of course I am not._

_Oh, but you are._

          Antoine shakes his head, nausea climbs in his throat and he senses the acid of bile gathering within him. He swallows thickly and a groan escapes Maxime’s lips. A pang of concern rearranges his own ribs. Saint-Just will always cherish him in silence; there he finds no rejection. He’ll choose to desire him in loneliness because not a person can own them but himself. He picks to love him in distance, for that is a defense from the pain. Just then, he kisses him with the wind; it is far softer than his own lips. Antoine wishes to fall asleep, hold him in his dreams–there, there will be no end. He doesn’t care then, he’d embrace him if them could, but for now, he can only hold him at the corners of his brain and at the edges of his fingertips. _Crave me madly and I will love you fiercely just the same_. 

          Antoine crouches lower and Maxime jerks from the movement. Their eyes peek open, squinted from the sunlight and meeting his gaze. The basil there is halfway revealed, wild, bloodshot and maybe even slightly afraid. Getting lost in there was perhaps a better way to go. He beholds him and can see it in his face. They think they hide it well but they don’t– _I see you_. Antoine observes the hurt: curled up in little flecks of gold among an ocean of emerald. The mauve circles under his eyes; Antoine can recall those late nights. No matter where it was, he always found his eyes discovering new ways to look towards him. There is a quiet plea this time, it is dancing on Maxime’s lower lip too afraid to be voiced. 

          Their eyes close again and Antoine panics, moving his arm closer to their hips and reaching for Maxime’s hands with both of theirs still tied behind their backs. His hands are frozen, like ice to the touch. They collided and a little sparks of fire spread through Maxime’s chilled skin. The carriage turned a narrow corner; their curled fingers pry apart and the shorter stumbles back. The only other person who hears the tiny scream leave them was Hanriot who set his jaw in tension. Antoine lowers to Maxime’s level once again. _I am here_ , his lips meet the shell of his ear.

          “Please, Maximilien, stay awake with me,” his harsh syllables have softened and the words come out sounding more as a desperate plea than demanding as he intentioned. Robespierre’s eyes part at this, shooting back open, easing gently and blinking several times into the shine. He pushes up against his shoulder and their hips connect, sliding together into place. Hidden beyond his tight, pained expression was a sadness and his eyes speak in words his tongue could never master. But their jaw was pressed shut, teeth and blood marring any vocals. Whatever it was he may of said in that moment, Antoine replied. 

_I love you, too._

          Maxime fluttered slowly and Antoine knew he had heard him clearly while they were not even speaking. Perhaps the carriage would never stop and they could stay there standing against dusk until night comes with their heads held high. But, the wheels slowed to a shuddering halt and Maxime tumbled slightly. In the corner, Hanriot crouches his back, cowering his head and drawing farther back into the space. Antoine felt his brows knot together. “Coward,” he mumbled and Maxime shook his head feebly as if to say, _don’t allow it to ruin this for us_. For a moment they only stood there. Maxime’s heavy breathing on his shoulder calmed him and his head turned out towards the scaffold. The breath caught in his throat, tightening in his lungs. There was a nudge on his side and he surveyed back down as Maxime shook his head again, _don’t look_. But he can’t stop himself now from allowing his eyes to trail up the tall shaft towards the blade. 

_I despise the dust that forms me and speaks to you._

          They took Couthon first, grabbing him underneath the arms and he slipped off of the back without much control of himself. Maxime only puts his head down and squeezes his eyes shut, the bandage is fully soaked through now but he wasn’t weary of the pain. “It’ll be over soon,” he leaned and spoke to him once again even though he knew full well it wasn’t any comfort. Maxime advanced farther into his side, the top of his head with patches of copper colored hair poke through, brushing against Antoine’s nape as they move. _We should of spent our lives chasing tiny moments of grace that hid in between our breaths and stolen glances; now it is the last instant before previously smiling lips come to rest_. _Nobody will ever know of us and I’ll be an artist, finding the beauty of you on your worst days_. 

          His lips part and his tongue is dry. All of him wanted to lean over and press his lips against his forehead. He witnessed him instead heighten his gaze where it had been hung and Antoine nearly lifted to wrap an arm over his chest. Through his shoulder he felt the breath that hitched in their throat and he saw them pause as if they wished to do the same and were preparing themselves for it to happen. His own chest tensed and he knew it to be true. _That we’d both do the same if we could_. A soldier came up to the back of the cart, his voice sounded as if there were a box of tin bouncing in the cavern of his mouth. Two other soldiers grabbed for Augustin and he yelped sharply as he was dragged off. Robespierre stepped forward and Saint-Just pushed him up farther. There was confusion in his face, _why are you pushing me before you?_ It said.

 _I am not going to let you watch me die_.

          Maxime wasn’t sure about this and paused, it was too late because instead they grabbed for Saint-Just first. Antoine hissed, setting his jaw and sensing his teeth grind together. He cleared his mouth to shout as he jumped down onto the grim of the city streets. He reversed, treading backwards with two hands on his shoulders leading him down towards the wooden stairs. They were implemented at the bottom of the platform. Augustin was being held up, his cheeks like mahogany and his stomach heaving. Maybe if Augustin hadn’t been in haste, he would’ve of dashed his brains on the cobblestones instead of broken his legs. Perhaps if the bullet had fallen a little higher, Maxime would not be here; he wouldn’t of had to suffer. His thoughts strayed to Phillippe Le Bas and the brim of his eyes twitched suddenly as if making way for tears that he forcefully subdued. It was the late afternoon and the heat was still sweltering, sweat was forming on his collarbone. Maxime was propelled up against him and Hanriot after that. 

_I tried, for that I am sorry, for this I am sorry._

          Maxime’s words were open wounds, he was waiting for something to stitch them back up again. They’ll both take their memories and bury them in a grave beside their love. He was wild and untamed. Place seeds there and the garden will eventually grow. After ten minutes, there was a sharp chiming in the air and the sun lowered farther in the distance. Rustling, boots on the stairs and the soldiers by Augustin hoisted him up higher. They panicked just then, Augustin putting out an arm and reaching for his older brother just a few meters away. 

          “Brother!”, he cried out in a rasped voice. It sounded like the scorched end of a cigar: burnt, crisp and ruptured. The expression their eyes had managed forced a chill to coil around the chords of his spine. The cedar was wide, primitive, and so very frightened. Maxime in response stepped forward, passing Saint-Just and attempting to make his way over. But a soldier put out a hand, pushing him back and he stumbled into the wooden planking behind them. Immediately, Saint-Just tore his attention over to him, standing above as he nudged back off and stood up. Only then was there a substance of true pain or hollow emotion that shifted up through the locked surface into Maxime’s eyes. The basil swelled, glassed over and watered before latching on his face. Antoine observed as his shoulders dropped, the radiance flickered and died out; he was watching them as he convinced himself to give up and die. When Saint-Just angled his head back around, Augustin was gone and he heard footsteps above him and the clink of buckles slipping together. He was next. 

          Everything slowed. The wind in his hair and the scent of the filthy city, the taste of acid and the quiver of his heart. The veins around his ribs seized, tightened and strangled him as if there were invisible hands digging their dirty nails into the flesh. _I am only twenty-six, I have lived for centuries and have learned to die_. There is only one thing that his eyes meet. He doesn’t care he is next or that he still has Le Bas’s blood beneath his nails. It was like holding his breath, everything freezing momentarily as he is mesmerized by the light and the quiet awe of Maxime’s eyes. Sunset is soon but he sees a different type in their countenance. The hues of life were winding down and the splash of chaotic seas molded together. There is a crash, the slice of metal and Maxime’s knees buckle. The footsteps start again and there is a drip pooling out from the floorboards onto the street. He almost gags and Maxime squeezed his own eyes shut as if it were a nasty dream. 

          Antoine marches confidently closer until their chests are only a few centimeters apart.  **“It’s time to say goodbye,”** but he doesn’t want to, not now or ever. There is a gentle rage simmering in their visage that melts down to his core. He yearned to shelter him like a flame from a storm with their backs against the wind. His lips gape hardly and he hankered for only the sweetest air. He’ll kiss him just to prove that you can see the world with your eyes closed and have it standing just in the reach of your fingertips. He hungered to make him shiver, to fall apart in his hands. There is fire in his bones now, like a soul that had been drowned in water too long. Every part of himself came alive like a dying star. Footsteps were drawing closer. Little verses and poems laced the flesh of his lip as he inclined and pressed it just at the corner of Maxime’s fractured lips. 

_Deep down, you just want to be loved in a way that calms your soul._

          Antoine pressed it there for seconds or minutes but hours is what truly seemed. He’s not apologizing for the aftermath, he’d sit there for hours moving his lips over ever inch of them if he could. He did eventually pull his head away, the cold press of Maxime’s skin still beating against the torn flesh of his lower lip. That was the instant he drew back, the moment when he last felt him. They only glimpsed receedingly into each others’s faces and burnt with the desire for more. Maxime shifted his hands in the ropes and snatched the front of his shirt, _please, don’t stop_. _But_ , _darling, I must_ , he swallowed, _because this where you follow me to the end of the Earth and past beyond the stars_. Antoine almost forgot what  life was like before that moment except for every other occasion he’d shared with him. There is relief in Maxime’s eyes suddenly, like the universe has finally been lifted from his shoulders and Antoine knows, if they could, they would’ve smiled. The desperation was washed away. He felt hands grip his shoulders and whirl him around towards the stairs. The arms behind his back are snapped further together and Maxime’s hand is not longer gripping him. Something left him when he realized this; the sky was folding in and the stars were crumpling to ash. 

          Antoine didn’t struggle. He was only reprimanded when he rolled his head back around and saw Maxime was standing there following him leave. Their hair was being brushed gently by the wind and their stained shirt waved.  _Don’t watch, please, for your sake, don’t watch_. A soldier howled at him, his head was slapped from the back, forcing him to face forward. When he tried to look back, Maxime was just out of view. At the top of the stairs the breeze was colder, but the sunlight hit him directly in the face. He blinked several times, his neck folding gently back underneath the sun’s razor. The sun does not shine because it was supposed to; it does so because it was born to.

_That is the thing._

          Antoine is thrust forward. 

_The sky demands to be seen._

          The plank meets him at the chest. 

_Just as love pushes to be felt._

          Buckles clink behind his back. 

_It is the exact thing with him._

          His gaze lifts and the blade glimmers in the shine as if it were jewelry.

_The dust that created him was gold waiting to be counted._

          The last thing he feels is what it felt to have another on his lips. 

_The depths of his eyes yearned to be understood._

          The final thing he knows is that Maxime is standing below him. “I will wait for you,” but he only mouths this, sounds do not escape him. 

_The coves of his soul craved to be held._

          “Follow me.” For the first time all day, he smiles. The blade chimes like a bell. Then there it is, sitting there on the edge of his tongue. 

_And you'd do it just for me._

          Only one word. 

_I'd do it for you._

          Maximilien.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading if you did! All researched etc. I adore comments, leave some if you'd like :D My Tumblr is @sonofhistory


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